Title: Commendare
Author: Jade Sabre
Notes: I have no particular reason for writing this other than pure self-indulgence, augmented by the knowledge that it was Janie's birthday and Quark had had a rough couple of days. I call it pure fluff, but occasionally nuance creeps in, as one does. And as always, I must thank Quark for her excellent beta and encouragement, and I hope you enjoy.
With all he'd faced, Cullen was almost ashamed to find himself brought low by a ball.
The whole affair had been ominous from the beginning. Not the death threats towards the empress—that was business as usual as far as he was concerned—but the initial negotiations required to bring the Inquisition to the ball. First there was the fuss over travel; he'd argued for a short journey, packing light and arriving just in time for the grand event itself, relying on the Inquisition's forces already stationed near Halamshiral to provide whatever requisitions were necessary. Josephine, however, insisted they come appropriately attired; he had countered that such attire made for poor riding, and so the compromise had been to ride in armor and arrive in style.
He hadn't been particularly convinced this was a good compromise, especially given the sweetness with which Josephine had acquiesced to the deal. When he'd finally seen the final product—three wagons' worth of trunks, and that just for the Inquisitor and her council and companions—Josephine had taken advantage of his speechless outrage to announce that given the load, she'd arranged for them to make various stops along the way "to strengthen the Inquisition's connections," which meant more formal dinners and thus more trunks. Before long his short journey had stretched into nearly a fortnight; he'd been very tempted to say he wasn't going, citing a need to remain accessible at Skyhold, but that would have meant abandoning his soldiers who had already committed to the affair. And abandoning the Inquisitor. And that was not an option.
Normally faced with such a situation, he would sigh and grit his teeth and perhaps mutter under his breath within earshot of Josephine. For the sake of his troops, he would put on a brave, encouraging face and nod in agreement with their grievances without betraying his own feelings. But at least for the space of the journey down the mountains, before they entered Orlais proper with all the propriety thus implied, he could ride next to the Inquisitor and voice his complaints—aloud.
A knock at his open door caused him to lift his head from the scattered mess of reports and requests and formations on his desk. The knocker caused him to sit straighter, to try to tidy said papers in one fell swoop, though the effort was doomed for lack of attention; he couldn't take his eyes off her. "Am I interrupting?" she asked, sidling in with a hesitant smile.
"No! No," he said, papers rustling in a now-disorganized mess. He ordered his hands to cease and desist, but that left him with two hands splayed flat atop piles of paper and Maker preserve him from that widening smile. "How can I—do you need something?"
"No," she said, a little shyly, and he thought she hadn't noticed he was being an idiot, was simply pleased to see him. "I just came by to—ask how your day has been?"
"My day?" He looked down at the missives wrinkling beneath his hands and tried to pick a starting point. "The first scouting reports from the Emerald Graves have arrived, and the reports from the training maneuvers in the Hinterlands have been quite favorable."
"Oh," she said.
"Yes. And—recruitment—" he cast about for the correct sheet, abandoned the effort for requiring him to look away from her faltering smile. He was doing something wrong. "Recruitment in—Orlais—we have reports of men and women coming south from—"
"Oh," she said again, and he stopped talking. She was studying him with a puzzled look, and he found himself avoiding her gaze until she said, "I asked about your day?"
"My day?" he said.
"Yes," she said, "as in, how—has no one asked about your day before?"
He considered this. He'd been giving daily reports of the day's events for—years, to the Viscount, to Meredith before her, to his lieutenant at Kinloch Hold before that. Even at the monastery he'd ended his day reciting what he'd learned to himself, committing every aspect of his studies to memory. But that wasn't what she was asking, and he suddenly found himself dredging up memories of his family, of sitting around the dinner table and talking, laughing over silly stories, Branson kicking him under the table for tattling—
"No," he said, and then amended, "not in a long time."
"Oh," she said, but this time it was more cheerful, though he thought he detected a hint of that determination she sometimes got in her eyes, that drive to fix it. She put both hands on the edge of his desk and leaned—the desk wobbled, and he would have to see about that—and she was suddenly much closer and his throat went dry as he looked up at her. "Well, then. This is how it works: I ask how your day has gone, and you tell me if it's been good or bad and what particularly annoyed you at any given time or what made you want to, I don't know, dance for joy-or whatever it is you do when you're excited, have I seen you excited? Anyway," she said, and this close he could see the blush creeping into her cheeks, "how was your day?"
He found the ability to voice his thoughts intoxicating. Not that he'd ever been one to keep his opinions to himself when he thought they were warranted, but she was interested in the little things, offering sympathy for the petty grievances and congratulations for the inconsequential triumphs, things no one other than his family had cared about. And something about knowing he had the support of the woman riding alongside him in small matters made it easier to face the big ones. He supposed this was what relationships were all about (this and the kissing, which was getting harder and harder to contain within the stolen moments of the day, but they were riding and now was not the time for daydreams), but the newness of it all, even after all these months, still made him a bit...heady.
They reached a level part of the pass and he drew closer to her, opening his mouth to complain about, in no particular order, Orlesians, Orlais, Josephine, formal attire, the difficulties of providing security for caravans, formal balls, Leliana's insistence on subtlety in infiltrating the Winter Palace, and perhaps a little more about Orlesians; and then she turned her head to him, tendrils of hair escaping her fur cap, cheeks tinged pink in the wind, breath puffing in the cold, and said, "May I tell you something?"
He shut his mouth and said, "Of course."
She leaned closer. He put out a hand to hover over her reins, just in case, but she didn't seem to notice as she confided, "I've always wanted to go to a ball."
He pressed his lips together to hide his horror. She was beaming now, eyes wide and crinkled at the corners, and the words came out in a rush. "I was never able to go to the balls at home, you see, first I was too young, and then I was in the Circle, and my sisters were always describing them in their letters and of course there were balls in all the best books and even after I was Harrowed I was never invited, not to the proper ones, and I've just always wanted to see all the ladies in their best dresses and to hear the music and the dancing, oh and I've heard the food is supposed to be divine, especially at the Winter Palace, and I—I didn't want to let Josephine know, because she'd get too—well, I didn't want her making a fuss when she had so much else to take care of but I've—" She finally broke for breath; he was vaguely surprised she hadn't turned blue in the meanwhile. "I can't believe I'm going to a ball at the Winter Palace."
"I—" damn it, man, he thought wildly, say something supportive, "—would not have—guessed."
"Oh good," she said, straightening back up in her saddle. "I've been trying ever so hard—I know we're not going for the ball," she said, disappointment evident in her voice, and he couldn't quite keep his bewilderment from his face. Thankfully she looked away, across the peaks to the west where here and there greener foothills peeked through the snow. "And so I didn't want to-make it too important, but I'm so excited I couldn't keep it to myself any longer."
"I won't tell," he said, and she cut her eyes at him, though her smile remained.
"I appreciate it," she said. "And I know—well," she said, reaching out; he caught her hand to steady her, and she lifted his to kiss his gloved palm. "Thank you for coming."
"You're welcome," he said, turning his hand over to clasp hers, wishing fervently (though irrationally) that he'd worn thinner gloves.
"Even though you hate nobles."
"Well—"
"And Orlais, and especially Orlesian nobles."
"I—"
"And probably dressing up and certainly the necessity of bringing fancy clothes." She released his hand, smirking at him.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Is it that obvious?"
"If it weren't, it wouldn't be you," she assured him. "The day you start agreeing with Josephine about the importance of frilly appearances is the day I give your job to Cassandra. And I suspect she wouldn't look nearly so good in your uniform."
He raised his eyebrows. "You're just saying that to make me blush."
"Probably," she agreed. "Doesn't change the fact that I can't wait to see what Josephine picked out for you. Now hurry up. If we move quickly enough we'll get there a day early and we'll have time to sit for a play."
"A play?"
"We never have time to sit for the ones in Val Royeaux, but the flyers I've been seeing from this season look simply fabulous. Besides, a day early is an extra day to scout out the best places to position our troops."
"Your reasoning is impeccable as always, Inquisitor."
"Thank you, Commander," she said, and she was grinning at him and he was grinning back and for a moment he felt as though perhaps—perhaps—this wouldn't be so bad.
o.O.o
He'd been right from the start. This was very, very bad.
"...and so," she concluded, leaning against the table that held his drink and scattering the pile of calling cards that had somehow collected there, "we have dead elves, murderous clowns, and Tevinter mages who couldn't even be bothered to dress for the occasion."
"How terrible," he said, scanning the ballroom for threats, something he'd been doing near-constantly since the first Orlesian had invaded his personal space with a request to touch his hair. The Inquisitor's presence had convinced most of them to back off, but she was still leaning in and speaking in a casual pitch to belie the severity of her words. Probably she was smiling too, as Leliana had advised, never let them know we are saying something important, but that was beyond his abilities.
"Yes," she agreed. "The royal apartments are the only place I haven't yet had the chance to search, so I suppose I'll go ask Celene for a key. Or her attendants. I can almost tell them apart, and then they switch places and I have to start all over again."
"Trying to confuse you? Preparing for an assassination attempt?"
"Everyone's preparing for one of those," she said, a hint of reprimand entering her chatty tone. "That's why we're here, remember?"
"How could I forget?" he asked, sidestepping yet another attempt to touch his hair and almost bumping into her. "Though from the way everyone's behaving one would think we were only here for—"
"Anyway, Celene's talking to—Morrigan, I think she said her name was?"
"Wonderful," he said, casting his gaze to the empress and her dark-dressed witch on the other side of the gallery.
"So I have a few moments before I can ask for permission. Care for a dance?"
"No, thank you," he said, narrowing his eyes at a young woman as she passed and gave a little wave of her fingers—oh, that was Yvette Montilyet, damn those Orlesian masks, now he'd never hear the end from Josephine about scowling at—
"Oh," she said, all cheerful veneer gone from her voice.
For the first time he looked at her, saw how thinly her smile stretched over the tension in her jaw, the worry and annoyance and determination and hurt in her eyes-hurt, and suddenly her words caught up to his comprehension and his eyes went wide behind his mask and he said, "No—oh—"
"It's all right," she said, but the strain in her words made his stomach drop, "I under—"
"I've been asked that question so many times," he said, and her lips twitched with actual amusement, "and I—I'm not one for dancing." He fumbled for an explanation in the midst of kicking himself for his idiocy. "The templars never attended balls."
"Neither did the Circle mages," she countered, and of course, she'd said that, but she looked over her shoulder with a sigh. Before he could devise a way to atone for his error, she said, "Looks like they're done. Back to work, then." And then she looked back at him and said, "May I tell you something?"
"Anything," he said desperately.
"This is," she confided, "the worst ball I have ever attended."
And then she was gone and immediately her place was somehow filled with three ladies and one squire, perfume and cologne and giggles and fans rapping at his arm and he fixed his face in a polite glare and went back to scanning the room. Leliana was going to lecture him about appearances and he didn't care; once again he was reduced to waiting, ignorant, unable to help, and now worst of all he'd hurt her feelings. His gaze settled on the ballroom floor, on the dancers and the musicians and the flickering candles.
Perhaps there was something he could do, after all.
o.O.o
The last lieutenant made his report in the downstairs of the vestibule; Cullen congratulated his men and sent them to enjoy the festivities, though he overheard several of them commenting they'd rather fight another dozen harlequins than drink alongside the Orlesian court. Warm with pride, he climbed the stairs to find Josephine waiting with two glasses of white wine, her smile unburdened, though of course it had never looked burdened in the first place. Still, he found the difference palpable, but perhaps it was merely a shared feeling of a weight lifted off their shoulders.
"Another disaster averted," he said, taking the glass from her and lifting it briefly.
"Yes," she said, lifting her glass back and taking a sip. He joined her and managed not to spit it out; trust Josephine to find the sweetest dessert wine in the palace. "Although I am not convinced our dear Inquisitor hasn't set up another one in its place; but worries for another day, as the empress said. Did we lose many?"
"Far fewer than I feared," he said.
"Then a victory indeed," she said, an even broader smile curling around her wineglass.
"I appreciate your care for our soldiers," he told her abruptly, sure that he meant it, not sure why he said it, unless perhaps as an apology for his reluctance to assist in her formalities.
"They are the lifeblood of the Inquisition," she said simply, her eyes suggesting his apology was accepted. "Although don't tell Leliana that. She thinks her spies—"
"I have news," the woman in question said, appearing almost out of nowhere with her own goblet. She'd managed to find what appeared to be a full-blooded red wine, and Cullen made a note to ask her where.
"Good news, I hope?" Josephine said.
"Perhaps," Leliana said, though her polite expression left much to be desired in the celebration department. "Celene has offered the services of one of her personal advisors to the Inquisition."
"Oh dear," Josephine said.
"A useless cousin?" Cullen asked. "Not one of those identical ladies, I hope."
"If it's a case of political expediency—"
"It is not," Leliana said, and they relaxed until her next words. "It is her occult advisor, Morrigan."
"You're joking," Cullen said.
"You know her, do you not?" Josephine said, her free hand fluttering as she hid the rest of her concern in a particularly long sip of wine.
"I do," Leliana said, raising her own glass to her lips without drinking from it. "I advised the Inquisitor to investigate her in the first place."
"And now she wants to join the Inquisition," Cullen said, not bothering to hide his displeasure, though both women gave him sharp looks for his lack of decorum. "Just what we need, another Orlesian spy."
"I do not believe she wishes to spy on us," Leliana said. "Or at least, not on Orlais's behalf."
"Then what would you suggest?" Josephine asked.
"That we take her up on her offer. Morrigan is very cunning, and not to be trusted, I think, but more importantly she has knowledge of ancient magic and history beyond the Chantry's ken. It could be of use to us," she said, "and even if it is not, at least we will be able to keep an eye on her, and keep her far from Celene."
"Replaced with one of our own, no doubt," Cullen said, but he couldn't muster up his usual dislike of politics. "Have you advised the Inquisitor of this?"
"I would," Leliana said, and now she did take a sip, smiling over the rim of her glass at someone passing behind them before saying around it, "if I knew where she was."
Cullen's shoulders stiffened with renewed stress; Josephine automatically raised her own glass. "She's missing?" she murmured through a smile of her own.
"I suspect it is more likely she simply does not wish to be found," Leliana said, glancing around the room.
"Have you sent anyone to search for her?" he demanded, barely remembering he had a glass in hand in time to keep from clenching his fist.
"I rather thought I'd send you," Leliana said, and her unconcern blossomed into a teasing smile. There was nothing to be embarrassed about—she knew very well the nature of their relationship, even if Josephine had instructed them to keep it quiet around the court (not that he'd needed the encouragement)—but as always her knowing look made the back of his neck hot. "I thought if she would decide to be found by anyone, you were the likeliest candidate."
"Yes," he managed, "well."
"You are so cute when you blush," Josephine said, making a small wave at one of the many masked nobles standing near the wall, apparently totally reassured by Leliana's plan and oblivious to Cullen's now-red cheeks. "Yes, go find your lady. I think I see Yvette flirting with the bastard son of the d'Argent heir, and that simply will not do."
"Yes, and I believe I overheard Sera attempting to recruit the Iron Bull's aid in her attempt to climb every chandelier in the chateau," Leliana said as Josephine left them. "Unless you'd rather handle that than the Inquisitor, Commander?"
"I—" he said, and Leliana made a shooing motion with her free hand and then departed.
He ran a hand over his face, settled his shoulders, and after a glance of reconnaissance, discarded the contents of his wineglass in the nearest potted plant. He set the empty glass on a servant's tray as he made his way into the ballroom, but then he stopped short just inside the massive doors, realizing he had not the slightest idea where to begin his search. With his luck, she'd decided to find a way to ascend the highest tower and he would have to spend the rest of the night climbing rickety ladders. A good thing he hadn't had any wine, he thought sourly. He was about to try to locate his maps when a dark dress, a shadow rustling amidst the bright lights and colors of the court, caught his eye on the far end of the ballroom. Only the empress and those she deemed worthy were allowed past the final columns; a good place to hide, and easier than scaling any walls.
Progress to the far balcony was slow; first he had to find a servant to make a request, and then every few steps someone asked him for a dance, or tried to touch his hair, or insinuated that his blood would make a welcome addition to their family's pedigree. By the end he was close to shoving people aside when Celene's guards allowed him to pass, closing rank behind him and effectively cutting off the woman insisting that he meet her daughter in one of the trysting halls. He hid behind a column and took several deep breaths until his temper settled—he thought boiling blood might be a less desirable trait, but that simply reminded him of blood magic, and now was not the time—
A woman in dark silks came through the doors leading to the outer balcony; behind her he saw a familiar silhouette, and so he pushed away from the column, new concerns crowding out the old—
The woman in dark silks met his gaze as he passed, and he knew her.
She knew him too, given the quirk of her eyebrow before she turned away; he couldn't help turning his head to watch her go, momentarily rooted to the spot. Of course—Leliana knew her—and he didn't remember much that was real from the days of Uldred's takeover, but after he'd been freed he'd listened to Greagoir refuse to perform the Rite of Annulment and in his wild shredded rage he'd marked all the mages in the Warden's party, marked the apostate clearest of all, intended to follow them out and kill them for preventing him from achieving justice for his slaughtered—
and that she remembered him, knew the desperate raving—
He was that man no longer, he reminded himself sternly, taking a deep breath; he'd traveled that path once, and it had brought him nothing but empty ruin. He'd left that life behind as surely as he'd left the Chantry, left lyrium, and if he still bore the marks on his soul where they'd had their hooks in him—at least they were scars, and not festering sores. And now...
Now he looked ahead to a woman in an Inquisition uniform, a staff slung casually across her back, and the sight of her filled him with peace.
If he constantly had to begin anew, this was a good place to start.
"There you are," he said, and she half-turned at the sound of his voice, looked back at over the garden as he settled next to her. He took in the tight grip she had on the railing, the mask dangling from her hand, the stiffness of her coat and the pink of freshly scrubbed cheeks at odds with the slump of her shoulders and the dried blood in her hair. He removed his own mask in solidarity and set it on the railing, hardly caring when it dropped to the bushes below. "Leliana suspected you were hiding."
"Leliana suspects a great many things and waits for the rest of us to confirm them," she said, weary and amused. "In this case, she would be correct."
"I see," he said, and then, before she could ask: "You can tell me."
She took a deep breath and he braced himself, but then she let it out in a sigh, looking around the garden, up at the stars, before saying simply, "Tonight has been...long."
"And?"
"Who says there's more?" she said, but she was beginning to smile.
"Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot believe that is all you have to say," he said. "The day you run out of things to say—"
"Is the day you recommend someone else take over the Inquisition, I know," she said, and now she was smiling, but it vanished as she continued. "I know tonight is supposed to be a victory but I can't help feeling I'm meddling in places I don't belong again. And that's what started this whole disaster—"
"If you hadn't meddled, Corypheus would already have won," he pointed out.
"Ah yes. The Inquisitor: making a mess of things that could have been infinitely worse. I should tell Varric; I think that would make a good title for his book."
"Is he writing another one?"
"Is that a question?" she said. "I think it's how he copes. I know it's how he copes. Don't worry, I'll tell him to say nice things about you."
"Being in one book of his was more than enough," he said, leaving out the part where he hadn't discovered his inclusion in Tale of the Champion until a hesitant Inquisition recruit had approached him with a copy asking for an autograph. "And what about you?"
She was silent and he caught himself tensing with worry, eased it with a hand on her shoulder, reassuring himself she was real and there and all right; she reached across and covered his hand with hers, and he felt her relax beneath his touch. They stood together, whole and safe for the moment; and for a moment, that was enough.
And then the distant music from the orchestra changed, and he studied her face for a moment before deciding to risk levity. "The worst ball you've ever attended?"
"Oh," she said, startled, and her hand fell away. She turned her mask over in her hands as she caught up to the question, and then she laughed ruefully and said, "Well, it's also the only ball I've ever attended. But let's see...my robes have blood on them, I didn't have a chance to eat the hors d'oeuvres, let alone dinner, my only dance partner tried to kill me, and I don't even get to wear a dress. And the collar of this thing itches," she said, tugging on it. "I know they call this the Winter Palace, but I don't think wool was the right choice. You can't complain, you wear that awful ruff—"
"Awful?" he said, startled in turn.
"—and it itches worse than this. But I was right about one thing," she said, glancing sidelong at him.
"Which was?" he asked.
The corners of her eyes crinkled, though the rest of her expression remained solemn. "The uniform looks much better on you than on Cassandra."
He laughed, embarrassed and pleased, and her lovely irrepressible smile surfaced and stole his laughter away with his breath. Maker, but amidst the war and the politics and the training and the chaos and the grind and the fear he wanted nothing, nothing more than to keep that smile on her face, to protect the fragile precious gift that was her indomitable inimitable self, no matter the cost. That he was more often helpless to do this than not did not escape him; he could only love her, and hope the strength of that love was enough.
She was staring at him, waiting, and he realized it had been too long since he'd laughed, too long for a comfortable response, and that he hadn't—told her, that perhaps she didn't know—
But he was a man of action more than words, and so he drew back, causing her to turn to follow him with an inquisitive look on her face. "I'm afraid," he said, "I cannot help with the blood or the food or the dress. But as this is your very first ball, and I may never have this chance again..." He bowed and held out his hand, and looked up; she was still staring at him, now with furrowed brow, and he smiled broadly into her confusion. "May I have this dance?"
Her breath caught, her mask clattering to the stone floor, but her hand was in his before she thought to respond. "Yes," she said as he drew her close, his eyes closing involuntarily as his other hand found her waist and he felt the warm real closeness of her, itchy attire and all. "But I thought," she said, as he started guiding her ever-so-carefully through the steps, "you didn't dance?"
The waltz drifted through the windows, though he heard less the music and more Josephine's voice counting one-two-three one-two-three, you must feel the beat in your feet. He knew his movements were stiff, a soldier with sword and shield, just as surely as he knew she was adjusting her more skittish grace to his rhythm; he opened his eyes to see her smiling at him even in the face of her question, and relaxed into her fluidity. "Well," he said, "it's your first ball, so I thought...for you, I'd try."
She looked at him then, a look he still didn't quite know how to read, because he thought she was happy but there were tears pooling in her eyes and her smile was broad and her lips were trembling. And then they were pressing against his cheek, murmuring, "Thank you," as she settled her head against his chest, her grip tight on his hand as they slowly turned beneath the star-filled sky.